


Ravens in America

by feverbeats



Series: Ravens [2]
Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molokov's eighth job is the first one in which something nearly goes badly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ravens in America

Molokov's eighth job is the first one in which something nearly goes badly wrong. It's his first time in America, and he's working under difficult conditions and on a tight schedule. His mark is an older CIA agent on whom they've got enough intel to target, and Molokov is here to seal the deal. Once they have the blackmail information secured, the man will do anything they want. This is practically assured by the fact that he has three children at home.

He prefers to let the people he's working against make the first move themselves, but sometimes that method doesn't work. They'll be too cautious or too frightened, and he'll risk losing them. His favorite method of dealing with such situations is compromising by making very, very good guesses about what will make someone touch him first.

This one is too smart. Molokov tries to encourage the agent to try something for a full week before he gets impatient and decides to take matters into his own hands. They need what this man has. He's not going to fuck up his perfect record of success and efficiency over some man who's too insecure to touch people.

Molokov makes his move in the man's car. It's not an ideal place, but the agent keeps refusing to go to a hotel room. Maybe it's paranoia or maybe he knows something.

The tricky part is, while the man's hotel is bugged with cameras, the car isn't. All they've got is the tiny audio recording device clipped to Molokov's tie, and that's only going to be enough if they make a lot of noise.

That's fine. Molokov can do that. It's going to be a lot dicier in terms of blackmail, but they've made harder things work. The man has a distinctive voice, anyhow.

Molokov shifts in the passenger seat when they park on a back road outside the city. The other agent hasn't spoken in about ten miles, and it's making Molokov nervous. This time, he's pretending to be a potential client for the business the man spends his free time running. Even as a front, it's exhausting.

The first kiss is well-received, and before he knows it, he's pushing his luck and they end up in the back seat, the sharp edge of a seat belt buckle digging into Molokov's back.

The man undresses him roughly, stripping his jacket and tie. Molokov swears silently, hoping the audio device is intact. He can't fuck this up. He never has.

He thinks about the mission as the agent gets both of their pants off. He's heard stories about what happens to KGB agents who make mistakes, and he tries not to think about it too much. If he thinks about it, he'll be distracted, and everything will go to hell. He didn't come this far and get this good to be pulled back home now. It's cold back home, and too many bad things happen.

He loves his country. He's never loved anything he didn't also fear.

The other agent is touching Molokov now, and he's being almost eerily silent. Molokov will just have to encourage him. Twisting his own head a little so he's angled for the discarded tie with the recording device, he moans.

The other agent draws a sharp breath, but it's barely above a whisper. Even if it could be proof of identity, the device won't pick it up. Molokov frowns in the dark and reaches for the other agent.

Sex in cars is one of Molokov's least favorite things. He always ends up bent in uncomfortable or undignified positions, wishing he had more control over the situation. Now, he feels more uncomfortable than ever, because the other agent clearly knows something is going on. Unless, of course, he's usually this silent during sex.

Molokov wraps his legs around the man, grinding their bodies together. If he weren't fucking shameless, he wouldn't have this job. The other agent grabs Molokov's hips and slides their bodies together again, jerking his hips hard against Molokov.

"Fuck," Molokov whispers, careful to keep his accent American. That's been the hardest skill to learn. He tends to slip into Russian if he's not careful, but most of them don't notice, and he's gotten much better at self-control.

Not as good at this fucking CIA man, though. His hands bookend Molokov's hips as he rubs their cocks together, hard against Molokov's belly. Molokov makes an inadvertent sound. This is no good, though. He needs to get the agent talking. A thrill shoots through him at the prospect that this will be difficult, and he wishes he didn't enjoy tricky missions so much. A man who won't respond shouldn't get him hot.

"You're so good," he mutters, gripping the edge of the car's backseat with one hand.

The man only makes a gruff little noise in response, again barely audible even inches away from him.

Molokov has made people scream. He can make this man say something. "Please," he says under his breath, still tilting his head toward the device. They need a male voice on the tape. "Tell me what you want me to do."

The man makes a slightly louder sound, then clamps his mouth shut and runs a hand roughly over Molokov's chest, twisting one nipple. Molokov stifles a shout for the sake of pride and then wishes he hadn't. This is bad, he thinks. This man must know.

In which case, Molokov is in a bad situation. He's unarmed, naked, and trapped under this man in the backseat of a car parked in the middle of nowhere. He can't panic, though. He can still turn this around. He can still get them the information he needs. The potential scandal they'll threaten the agent with flashes through his mind: _CIA operative fucks and kills male prostitute_.

It needs a little work.

The agent bends down and runs his tongue over Molokov's collarbone, and Molokov thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's gotten lucky. Maybe the man is just naturally shy. He can still spin this right. He reaches up to push against the man's body a little, feeling resistance. If he can guess very quickly what this man likes, he can play him. Most of them like feeling as though they have Molokov completely under their control, he's discovered. The irony is charming, but he doesn't usually let himself think about it until later.

He twists a little, writhing against the man. "God, please, tell me what you need."

The other agent stills, hands tight on Molokov's hips. He doesn't say anything.

Molokov resists the nearly overwhelming urge to try to get free, or even just to move around. He never would have gotten this far in his line of work if he couldn't keep still when he needed to, though.

The other agent begins to move again, wrapping his hand around Molokov's cock and jerking him off too slowly. Molokov's hips stutter upwards of their own accord, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He _will_ find out what gets this man off. "Yes," he says under his breath, remembering in time to tilt his head. "That's good." He spreads his legs as much as he can in this cramped space, thrusting into the agent's hand fast and hard.

The agent draws another sharp breath, and Molokov fights a grin. _Yes_. "That's so good," he continues. "I like it when you touch my cock. Can I suck you off?" There was a special phrasebook for this sort of English included in his training packet.

"Ahh, shit," the other agent says.

_That's_ loud enough for the microphone.

Molokov waits a beat before moaning and shifting against him. "Let me. I want you to fuck my mouth. Please, please." He tries, this time, to avoid contractions. Those often trip him up.

The other agent grabs him by the hair and shifts both of their bodies until he's kneeling over Molokov's chest, straddling him.

Molokov can make him talk, now. He slides his mouth over the agent's cock, using his tongue too much, because if his guess is correct, the man will like that.

And he does. "Fucking hell." He shoves into Molokov's mouth almost immediately, hard and rough.

Molokov, although he's taken by surprise and lying on his back, does not gag. He's not a fucking idiot. He just opens his mouth wider, relaxes his throat, and listens.

"C'mon," the agent mutters, shifting his hips for a better angle. "Take it, you little bitch."

Molokov shuts his eyes. He can take it. The man can't possibly know he's KGB, unless he's planning to kill him and blow up the car after he comes, but that seems unlikely at this point. The man's hands are rough in his hair, though, and it makes him a little nervous.

"Ahh, fuck, I'm gonna—Yeah, take that, you little fucking—Christ . . ." The agent is practically handing Molokov and his superiors a monologue now.

When the agent comes, Molokov nearly chokes. But he doesn't.

The agent pulls back, chest slick with sweat in the summer heat. "Hm," he says. Molokov can tell he's thinking about reciprocating, but that's won't be necessary.

"That's fine," Molokov says, pulling his American accent together tightly in his raw throat as he preempts the question. "I'm fine."

The agent gives him a curt nod. What an asshole.

When Molokov gets dressed, he carefully puts the tie back on, straightening it and pressing the tips of his fingers against the metal of the audio device.


End file.
